Broken Bonds
by DarkJackal
Summary: Guy of Gisborne reflects on his freedom after the death of the Sheriff, while his sister Isabella searches for assurance.


**Characters: ** Guy, Isabella (mentions the Sheriff and Prince John)  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Angst, Drama  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Up to season 3, end of episode 6  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 4,000  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Main characters owned by the BBC and Tiger Aspect. I get nothing out of this except an unhealthy enjoyment!

**Setting: **This is a sequel of sorts to "The Devil May Care" since it refers once or twice to dialog in that story, but can probably be read on its own without much confusion.

**Summary:** _Gisborne reflects on his freedom after the death of the Sheriff, while Isabella searches for assurance._

Broken Bonds

Guy hauled himself up the last stairs leading to the landing of the East wall, the site of his first and final fight with the Sheriff of Nottingham. He had come away the victor, though his leg was beginning to stiffen where Vaisey's dagger had torn into the muscle. The blade's point grazed bone, and afterward it was all he could do to make it through the Prince's feast, heedless of whether or not his clench-toothed grimace passed for a smile. He would need to get the wound tended to, but at the moment, he needed to be alone. The castle was buzzing with news of the Sheriff's death, his body having already been removed by the guards. Prince John wanted to blame the murder on Robin Hood, but the furtive glances he observed on the nobles' faces at dinner told him not everyone was convinced of that likelihood. It was no secret he and Vaisey had been on less than friendly terms. But he doubted anyone would be foolish enough to accuse him publicly. After all, the man who killed the Sheriff was not someone to trifle with.

Although there were many dark crevices he could have retreated to in the castle, he felt drawn back to the same high place he almost met his end at the Sheriff's hands. Limping to the wall, his fingers curled over the edge for support. The stars glinted, dull and distant, through the haze of the early autumn sky. The heat of the day remained in the rock, but the brisk air coursing around the parapet would soon leach it away. Wind-blown dust topping the wall reminded him of sand in Acre, but then it took little to propel his mind back to that fateful place. This time, the texture of the gritty stone brought forth the memory of a dream. His eyes closed as he tried to conjure the images.

He remembered being on his knees, attempting to suffocate someone under burning sands. The person was submerged in the white-hot wastes, and he saw his own arms disappearing into it, pinning them down. He did not know who it was, just knew if he let them breathe again they would kill him. Maybe it was Vaisey, or Hood. But he had a feeling the slim neck he held under the surface was Marian's. Once the struggle ceased, the ocean of particles was smooth. Even awake, he could feel a reverberation from the chord of fear the dream had plucked. He opened his eyes. The memory of the scorching sun faded. He was becoming used to these guilt-laden episodes, able to dismiss them more efficiently now.

Leaning over the wall, he saw the watch-fires burning a hundred yards below, while the Prince's guard patrolled the perimeter in better form than the castle guard ever did. It was only recently he realized how lazy he had become, letting the training of his men lapse. What motivation he possessed had died with Marian. But now it was different working directly for the Prince, where every success or failure was life-threateningly important. Far from unnerving him, he found it rejuvenating. The Prince's interest was enough distraction to break free from the morass of guilt he had sunk into. As long as he continued to please him, he would be rewarded with real power, not just vague assertions.

But it _was_ difficult keeping royalty satisfied. At least Vaisey had not been deluded enough to think Guy's every thought was devoted to him. Not so with John. He knew that a wrong look, or a word misconstrued, would have the man shouting for blood. Ultimately, he had only traded one master for another, the new one more possessive and mad than the last. Not that there was a choice. The Prince had commanded him to kill the Sheriff, and when he hesitated, John had given Vaisey leave to kill him, a little extra motivation to carry out his appointed task.

He was not certain what caused that nearly fatal hesitation. Getting rid of Vaisey was an option he had toyed with ever since returning from Acre. It was the only real escape from a life he no longer found rewarding. But all he ever did was hold onto the idea, occasionally unfurling it in his mind, as a lover would a note from a mistress. A shameful comfort in the darkest times. But when it came time to act, he was so easily dissuaded, as if he had not wanted to follow through. Maybe the Sheriff's lies achieved their task, convincing him he was still a necessary evil in his life.

The reasons no longer mattered. The man was dead, killed with his own dagger by one of the only people he ever really trusted. Unlike the Sheriff, Guy possessed little appreciation for poetic irony, but it struck even his weary mind as justly fitting.

A nightjar flew low over the wall, trilling its contempt for the earth-bound creatures under it. Passing above a torch, the bird snapped up a moth drawn by the flame. Perhaps in response to his presence, it risked no further interaction, disappearing into the night. It reminded him of the menagerie of birds that remained prisoner in the Sheriff's quarters. He wondered if anyone would care for them, now that their gaoler was dead. He was certainly not going to. It was bad enough when, as an amusement years ago, Vaisey insisted he hold one of them. If he breathed too hard he might have killed it, but the tiny thing had been undaunted by his gloved hands, pecking at his nerve-wracked fingers. He found the creatures irritating, but he might see fit to free the Sheriff's collection. He could guess which Vaisey would have hated more, their little bodies rotting in their cages, or being allowed another chance at life.

Feeling his own chance coming around at last, his eyes swept over the castle, taking in the town of Nottingham, and finally resting on the dark mass of Sherwood. It would all be his soon, once Prince John announced him as the new sheriff.

A noise on the wind made him stop. He thought he heard the echo of a harsh laugh. Mocking.

Shaking his head, he glanced at the place the Sheriff had clutched at his arm with failing strength, desperate to give a warning to his killer.

_Nothing is what it seems. _

He could not guess what he had meant by it. It was a warning the Sheriff himself should have heeded. But he had been blind to the real peril, choosing to believe Guy's oft-strained loyalty would protect him.

_You loved me like a father once. I know you did. _

"Seems you were wrong," Guy chided the memory of the man. It was more accurate to say he loved him like his own uncle, which was not at all. That man had been a tyrant, and he never imagined hating anyone more, until he met Vaisey. Typical of the Sheriff to mistake fear for loyalty, hate for love.

_You know I loved you like a son. _

That was a cruel jest. He could only guess what sort of God-cursed creature the Sheriff's own would be. At least he had the satisfaction knowing he never turned out as Vaisey wanted. The Sheriff had always been disappointed by his refusal to discard all sense of humanity. There may not have been more than a spark remaining, but it was too entrenched to eradicate completely, though God knew Vaisey tried to smother it at every opportunity.

"You failed, old man. I am not yours anymore."

_So who's are you now?_

It was still the Sheriff's voice he heard, only it sounded cracked and broken.

"No one's," he told the night.

_Really? _The word was sharply patronizing.

He wondered if his doom was to hear the wicked bastard in his mind from now on. He told himself it was a force of habit, understandable given all the years of criticism he withstood. Habits could be broken.

Yet even so, the question demanded an answer. He spoke louder this time.

"I am no one's."

He felt a silent skepticism in reply. But he knew what he said to be true. He might do what the Prince ordered, but John was not adept at scratching under the skin to the heart. He would never again allow himself to be bonded to anyone in that way, mindlessly and without question. Outwardly, it was a subtle distinction, invisible to an onlooker, but it meant the difference between sanity and madness.

He heard the scrape of a shoe on stone. Startling, he drew his sword.

"Guy?" said a female voice he was still unused to hearing. "It's only me, mon frere."

Isabella. Still dressed in the rust red velvet she wore at dinner, her hair was pinned up with a jeweled comb, and he realized she had grown to be captivating like their mother had been. But it was beauty of another quality, like the difference between the light of dawn in winter and spring. The angles of his sister's face were more sharply defined, and where their mother's smile had been warm and welcoming, Isabella's was coolly calculated to elicit a response in whomever she bestowed it upon. At the moment, she kept it hidden.

Seeing no one else present, her brows knit questioningly. "Who were you talking to?" She regarded him with a look that discounted his own assertions of sanity. He ignored the question.

"Why are you here?" he asked, one hand still gripping the wall, the other holding the sword between them.

She kept her distance. "Because I figured you would be."

"And why is that?" he pressed.

Isabella smirked. "The scene of a crime often draws the guilty. The guards were somewhat loose-tongued about the details," she explained.

That was an annoyance. Loose-tongued would sum them up nicely once he was done with them.

"You can put that away," she pointed to the weapon. "What do you think I'm going to do? Try to kill you and be sheriff in your stead?"

He laughed uneasily, unsure which part of that statement was the least plausible. Taking a chance neither would happen tonight, he sheathed the sword.

With the blade out of the way, she appeared to notice his off-balance stance for the first time.

"You need to clean that wound," she indicated the place on his thigh where the blood had dried to a dark maroon.

"It's fine," he said, putting his full weight on it, and regretting it immediately.

"I'm sure it isn't," she sighed scornfully. "You know, I have not forgotten everything our mother taught me."

Their mother had possessed knowledge of the healing arts, passing down some of her skills to her daughter. Though young, Isabella had been a willing pupil. As children, she and Guy joked that if he was ever impaled by a lance she would pluck it out and mend the hole. It was a good reason, she believed, to let her tag along at tournaments. But that was a lifetime ago, before the darkness settled on their family like a damp wool cloak. The little girl he once swore to protect had been twisted by time into a woman he could no longer trust.

Uninvited, she moved nearer. "Do you remember when you injured yourself after insisting on riding uncle's stallion? I put that right, did I not?"

He had tried, mostly successfully, to forget the details of the years spent living at their uncle's estate in France. After their parents died, there was nowhere to go but to their mother's brother. Their uncle had been a harsh man, one of the French king's lieutenants, managing his lands—and the people in them—like a wolf would tend a flock of sheep. He treated Guy and Isabella more like servants than family. And indeed, as a squire, it was Guy's duty to serve him.

If it were only a lack of love, it would have been acceptable. Despite their youth, they had suffered enough injustice in England that it was hard to shock either of them. But because his uncle maintained a deep contempt for Guy's father—the Englishman who swept his sister Ghislaine to a foreign shore, only to meet an untimely end—he took personal satisfaction in Guy's misery, as if he expected the boy to do penance for his brother-in-law's failure. On some level, Guy accepted the burden of guilt. But he knew his uncle's vindictive behavior was unwarranted. He tolerated it as long as it ensured their survival, while his mind sought a better solution to their predicament.

The particular memory she referred to was long buried, but took only a moment to recall. The stallion was his uncle's war mount, and the big man had laughed derisively when he showed an interest in it. He had warned Guy, in a voice roughened from shouting commands all his life, that if he were not intending to lead men, or kill men, then he had no business riding it. But it was a symbol of power and wealth, and Guy felt driven to claim that power, however dangerous.

The horse was bigger than any palfrey he had ridden. It took bridle and saddle without complaint, but the destrier recognized he was not qualified to ride it, even if he did not. Not having been taught the proper commands, he tried improvising, but it only drove the beast into a rage. It crashed into the paddock fence, scratching its shoulder, and driving his own leg into the splintered wood. The horse had enough battle scars to hide the shallow furrows, and he prayed it would go unnoticed. His own wound was another matter. He worked all day to repair the fence, trying to ignore his bleeding calf. But before the sun had set, he was close to weeping from the pain, and the mounting realization that it might be a crippling injury.

"I was terrified of what he would do to me," Guy said, staring sightlessly into the past. If their uncle found out, he would have been whipped, or worse, denied any further training as a knight.

"You trusted me then," Isabella said.

He did, and the young girl had done her best to pull fragments of wood from the wound, then clean and bind it properly.

"Uncle never did find out, did he?" she asked quietly.

"No, you did well," he said absently.

She was looking out into the night, perhaps envisioning the same scenes he was. "We took care of each other, back then."

Standing by her side, he could feel her turn to look at him, but he did not meet her gaze. Instead he said simply, "There was no one else to do so."

She refrained from reaching out to him with her hands, but her words attempted as much. "There is _still_ no one else."

He knew she was implying they could go back to that less bitter place, if they chose to. He felt a pang of loss, for what they once meant to each other, the bond they once shared. But he could not repair that which was broken. He could no longer offer love to anyone. Marian had taken it all, then discarded it, leaving him with nothing but a sense of waste.

"How did you ever manage, once I was gone?" She asked the question lightly, but there was, as ever, an undercurrent of blame. Even now, she felt he betrayed her. But he would not acknowledge he made the wrong decision. She did not understand he had been trapped as much as she was. Living as little better than a slave to his uncle made him see there was only one choice—go back to England and fight to reclaim the family's right to the Locksley lands. He believed he had found a way for them both to escape their uncle's dominion, in the form of her marriage to a wealthy noble. It had been a relief knowing she would become a lady of prosperity, and it gave him the funds to do what needed to be done. He took a chance that nothing could be worse for either of them than living under his uncle's rule. He was only partially correct. Then, as now, he replaced one master with another.

Since he did not respond to her last question, she changed the topic.

"Did..._he_ say anything?" A glance at his wound indicated to whom she referred, but Guy was no more inclined to discuss that than the previous subject.

"He said plenty, none of it truthful. Why?"

"C'est rien. Only..." she hesitated, seemingly embarrassed to say what was on her mind, "...Vaisey promised to keep me safe from Thornton."

He could not repress a sneer. "Did he? How considerate."

She looked down at her hands, as if questioning the Sheriff's offer of help for the first time.

He suspected it had been a cruel taunt that would have seen her trust betrayed. How could she be so easily fooled into thinking the man was anything but a spiteful liar?

_How? The same way you were. _

It was not the Sheriff's voice in his mind this time, but his own. For all his faults, Vaisey had not been a fool. If he wanted Isabella's loyalty, he would have identified what mattered most to her, then fed off the promise of it. He always had a knack for saying what the mind wanted to hear, getting right to the nerve of the matter and pinching until there was no choice but to give in. She was lucky Vaisey never got the chance to know her better. At least her soul would not be blackened. He felt a twinge of jealousy that she had gotten away so easily, after he had been through so much.

"I suppose he changed his mind about selling you back to Thornton," he revealed, intended the words to hurt.

Her laugh was a gentle snort. "Perhaps I charmed him."

"No offense sister, but I doubt that." It reminded him of something which had been annoying him since Prince John's arrival. "Speaking of charming, you should be careful how far you lead the Prince on. You will never be a queen, only a second rate mistress," he said bluntly. "Or maybe third rate. I do not keep up with the rumors."

She looked distastefully at him. "I am not as indecent as you assume, brother, nor as foolish. If you give men what they want, they get bored and want something else. There are more productive ways a woman may achieve her aims."

The truth was, he knew the effect of that tactic only too well, having been led like a hound through a quarry-less chase for so long. But he chose to fulfill her expectation of his ignorance.

"Really?"

"Yes. I still need someone to keep my husband away, now that y...,"she stopped herself, "Robin Hood killed the Sheriff. But you are, as yet, not sheriff."

"I will be..."

She cut him off, "That is fantastic. But there is no reason why I should not fortify my position in my own way."

"What _position_ have you?" he asked contemptuously. "You are still married, despite your fantasy of freedom. Your status is bound to Thornton, whether you accept it or not."

"You have hit on it exactly, my brilliant brother," she said sarcastically. "With the Prince's support, a divorce would not be unobtainable."

His hand went to the bridge of his nose as a pain crossed his brow. This was not something he wanted to get involved in. He had more to worry about than her marital status.

"Whatever," he grunted. "Just so long as you do not anger him."

"Anger him?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Have you seen the way he looks at me?"

"All of England has seen it," he said, irritated.

His accusation was met with a delighted laugh, and he felt a rush of anger. God help him, but she was going to destroy their chances. He had lost too much, given too much, to let that happen.

"It is no game, Isabella. He is not some fool you can tease and discard."

"I am aware of that," she said smugly. "Do not worry. I know well enough about dangerous men."

"Good," he said coldly, looming over her. She stood her ground. "Then you will know exactly what I mean," he encircled her neck with his hands, gentle, yet unmistakably threatening, "when I tell you to beware." Isabella flashed him a defiant look, but he did not see it. The dream image was suddenly superimposed over the woman he held, her face screened from his sight by a white-hot blaze. The same irrational fear washed over him, and he felt his hands clenching involuntarily.

Had the dream been a warning against his own blood, or just meaningless imaginings, such as those spawned by a shock-stricken brain?

_Nothing is what it seems. _

He willed himself to relax his hold, even while another flush of foreboding shivered through him. Shaking, he removed his hands from her throat, refusing to sacrifice his only sister to unsupported fears.

"Just leave me," he said hoarsely, backing away from her. The fading pink lines across her neck were evidence it had not been a dream this time.

"Fine." A reddish light from the sconce on the wall reflected in her eyes as she looked angrily at him. But she did not seem daunted by the peril she had been in. Perhaps it was as she said—near breakdowns from volatile men were part of her life. "When you are done mourning your loss," she said snidely, "come to me. If you do not take care of the wound before it festers, you might be stricken to death with fever. Then the Prince will find someone else to take Nottingham, and what then will I be left with?"

Recovering his composure, he remarked, "There I was, thinking you were concerned for me."

"I am concerned for us both," she said, exasperated. "We are the same blood, Guy, though you have done much to forget that."

Looking at her, his face betrayed neither guilt nor remorse. Maybe the Sheriff had won after all, killing whatever was inside him that felt anything.

When he did nothing to gainsay her accusation, she added, "Perhaps I should try living like you from now on, giving no thought for anyone but myself."

He turned his back on her, avoiding her stare. He might have explained, told her what he once felt, what it had done to him to let her go those many years ago. But he could not, no more than he could change what happened to them. So he let the opportunity die, and the moment passed without remark.

A biting wind buffeted the walls of the castle, and his eyes narrowed in the gust. When he turned around, Isabella had already retreated to the shelter of the keep. In her absence, his eyes focused on moths flirting with the torch light. Like the insects, she was going to get burned if she continued to dash about a flame that was too hot for her. But he found he possessed no more than a ghost of concern, even for the last person who might still care for him.

Looking down at hands which had always sought to break what they could not control, he said softly, "Sister, you know me not."

_And perhaps that is for the best, _he thought, beginning his slow descent of the stairs, and leaving the moths to their fate.


End file.
